


All In A Day's Work

by GrinningColossus



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Smut, really and truly just smut with almost no plot and very little shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8657932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrinningColossus/pseuds/GrinningColossus
Summary: Female sole survivor and Minutemen General Mona visits The Slog to help bolster their defenses. The project leaves her with some blisters, and a feeling of a job well done, and some unforeseen but very desirable rewards.





	

The first time Mona passes through The Slog, Hancock happens to be with her.

He’s just as surprised as she is to see a farm run exclusively by ghouls, and it’s somewhat touching that he doesn’t crack wise about it, opting instead to stand quietly by as she unloads some of their surplus at the tiny little trading post inside. They don’t talk to too many of the ghouls, but Hancock is pleased when she buys some of their fresh tarberries and shares them with him when they head out again.

* * *

The place has almost slipped Mona’s memory when Preston shakes her awake in the wee hours with a report that The Slog is being attacked and if she would be so kind to get her ass out there to kill whatever hideous creature it is that’s doing the attacking? (Preston would never talk to her like that, she knows, but this early in the morning she’s pissy enough that he may as well have.)

She makes good time getting out there. It’s just going on late morning when she arrives from the trees, rifle in firing position as she locks onto the mirelurks that are attempting to swarm their way over the fences. There are a few dead ones piled up and the ghouls are making an admirable effort to repel them, but between hard shells and hidden underparts each mirelurk is like a miniature tank and it’s no wonder they’re having a terrible time of it.

So she cleans up, like she always does.

When it’s over, she radios Preston. “I’m going to stay for a little while and help build up some defenses. Yeah, if there’s anyone at Sanctuary with nothing to do, let’s get a trade route going. I’m going to need some electronic doodads. Huh? Oh, no hard stuff. There’s enough scrap here for that. It’s the delicate stuff I need. Roger that. Thanks, Preston.”

When the radio is clipped back onto her belt, she looks up to see one of the ghouls watching her. He’s tall and all lean muscle, white as a sheet, and his clothes and work gloves look well-used.

“Wiseman,” he says, reaching for her hand. “We appreciate the help.”

She grins, accepting the handshake. “General Mona. I don’t know if you heard me telling my buddy, but I’m going to stay on for a bit and help you folks get some defenses built. If that’s alright,” she says, painfully aware of how much like an afterthought it sounds.

Wiseman laughs, rich and deep. “I don’t think we’re in much of a position to say no.”

Mona looks around, watching half the workers diligently return to their posts while the other half try to figure out what to do with quarter ton of mirelurk corpses. “I got to say, this is an impressive setup. I haven’t seen a tarberry farm anywhere else in the Commonwealth.”

His chest puffs proudly. “Only one, right here.”

“I’m thinking our friends here thought your pool was a great place to lay some eggs,” she speculates.

“Don’t doubt it. It’s embarrassing to say, but the water ain’t as pure as we’d like. Good for growing the berries, but not potable. It’s fine for us ghouls, you know, but that means it probably smelled like heaven for the nasty things.”

Mona makes a mental note to build them a proper purification system. “Look, I’ve got some supplies heading out here. I’m going to get started on some of the bigger stuff in the meantime. Do you have any workers you could spare to help me break down whatever scrap you’ve got lying around?”

He nods and walks away. She’s checking the stability of the chain link fence surrounding the pool when he returns with five strong ghouls in tow, and she’s issuing orders before she can stop herself. “Any part of the fence that isn’t straight, or got too many broken links, you cut it down and bring it here. I’m going to need some big pieces of wood. If you got big branches or logs or broken furniture, set it down over there.”

It would be a lie if she said she isn’t impressed when they accept their orders without hesitation; but then, the people who can’t take orders or work together become raider types, and the ones who can go on to build farms and settlements.

Wiseman is still standing there when she’s sent the others off.

“Oh!” she says, surprised, “are you volunteering too?”

“Sure am. What do you need, General?”

* * *

By the time night falls Mona is exhausted, but pleased. The caravan she’s expecting hasn’t come yet, but that’s fine. In the meanwhile she’s repaired the fence and started working on some lookout posts, and, with the help of a handy ghoul named Arlen, the skeletons of a few turrets are waiting for their circuitry in the shed where she’d found him surrounded by toy parts. Wiseman, to his credit, has proved extremely useful as well. He’s not as handy as Arlen and Mona, but he’s hardworking and knowledgeable about a hell of a lot of things, and while they work he distracts her from the tedium by telling stories and feeding her trivia about agriculture.

And, so help her, it’s actually some pretty fascinating stuff. It doesn’t hurt that he’s an animated and engrossing storyteller, even when his hands are busy securing the rigging on the guard post rail.

She eats with the ghouls around their nightly bonfire and takes to bed earlier than most, having been awake for far too long.

Holly, one of the workers, shows her to the bed she can use, and she’s asleep almost as soon as she hits the mattress.

* * *

Another day of hard work greets her in the morning, and after some bad coffee and a sweet roll she’s ready to get to it again.

The caravan arrives mid-morning, bringing with it her circuits and screws and fuses, and so she spends most of the second day assembling the turrets and getting two generators going while her band of workers put the finishing touches on the guard posts and the reinforced fence she’d started the day before. Wiseman supervises the workers instead of helping her directly, so when it’s time to stop for the night and join the others around the fire she purposefully seeks him out and sits with him to eat.

He tells her about why he started The Slog, and how it got its name, and has a funny tale for almost every resident and how they came to live there, which gets the whole group laughing and joking.

Mona is still laughing when she pulls off her boots for bed and collapses onto it, and as she lies there she thinks about how good of a time she’s having, and drifts off to sleep with a smile on her face.

* * *

 Day three is the last day she’s planned to be there, and almost everything is the way she wants it. She’s done some minor fixes inside the building, getting the lights on, getting the rooms cleared of debris, and even helping to upgrade their little trading post, but it isn’t until noon that she’s able to work on what she’s been itching to do this whole time, the water purifier.

She knows the mechanics in and out, doesn’t need a blueprint, isn’t nervous about whether it will work or not, but the heavy metal drum and piping are slightly too heavy for a woman of her size alone and so the team reunites, including Wiseman, and together they lift the weightier bits into place like a big, bulky puzzle, and she hooks up the second generator (far away from the water, because she’s not an idiot) and she’s pleased as punch when the thing sputters to life, starting noisy as it establishes its siphon and then becoming whisper quiet as it settles.

* * *

When night falls, Mona is startled to find a feeling of sadness creeping into her gut; she’s going to miss this place.

So when they’re all sitting around the fire, this time cracking drinks alongside jokes, and Wiseman invites her up to the western guard post to help him christen it with its first overnight watch, she agrees with little hesitation.

She takes two glasses  to match the bottle of tarberry gin he’s holding (yes, it’s a thing, and yes, it’s delicious), and together they walk out to the post, climbing up and settling into the two patio chairs. It’s a beautiful night, the stars shining with a clarity that wouldn’t have been possible 200 years ago with all the light pollution, and the familiar mix of feeling both cursed and lucky hits her like it does when her guard is down.

Wiseman’s legs are spread, his elbows resting on his knees, the glass of gin held in one gloved hand. He’s slowly rotating it, watching the liquid tilt. “I’m real glad you came back, General.”

“Came back?”

He laughs. His eyes are pitch black and strangely captivating. Mona doesn’t know when she got used to seeing ghouls, but she has and she’s glad for it. “You don’t remember when you passed through? That was, oh, maybe about three months ago?”

“Ah, that time.” She drinks the last from her glass, refills it. “Seems like so long ago when I think about it. Things move pretty fast around here.”

“Not from the Commonwealth, I take it?”

 “You could say that.” She laughs strangely, but doesn’t elaborate, and Wiseman lets it go. “I didn’t see you that time.”

“Yeah, I was there. Doing something, I guess. Like always.”

“Well, then, I’m surprised you remember me, since you’re so busy and important,” she teases, her pouty lips held in a tight smirk. It’s hard to tell without pupils, but she thinks his eyes dart down to look at her mouth.

The alcohol must really be hitting her, she thinks immediately after.

“You’ve got a difficult face to forget.” He swallows hard, like it’s something he didn’t really intend to say.

“Aw,” she says, putting her palm to her cheek. “You’re making me blush.”

“I mean it; there’s not a lot of people like you around. And then you come back and help us with all these things that I never would have gotten around to doing…”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Wise. This is literally my job. You already wrangled together unrelated people and made a functioning farm and living space out of nothing. Hardly anyone I know could do that. No one person is supposed to be able to do everything, you know. You’ll fry out your circuits and fall on your ass trying.”

He chuckled, his normally raspy voice deeper than usual. The alcohol was going to him, too. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

She whistles. “Oh yeah. That’s why I travel with friends. You gotta get someone with a different skillset in there with you, to help you see things the way they are and keep things fresh.”

“When you were here the first time,” he says slowly, as if making up his mind, “there was a ghoul with you.”

“Hancock, yeah,” she remembers.

“Mayor of Goodneighbor, Hancock?”

“The very same.”

“Wow.” He rubs his hand on the back of his bare neck. “We were pretty surprised to see that, you gotta understand. Even not knowing who he was. You don’t see a lot of smoothskins running around with ghouls willingly, especially not beautiful women like you.”

This time she’s too flattered to play it off with a joke. “I…that’s really nice of you to say. But it’s not…I don’t think I’m better than ghouls, and neither should you or anyone else. Skin texture be damned,” she adds, hoping to get a laugh and relieved when she does.

Wiseman leans back in his chair, elbows up and hands behind his head, and she catches herself looking at his strong arm muscles. “It can be hard not to think that like. But seeing you and your man, it gives us hope, you know?”

She chokes a little on the sip she’s taking when he says it. “Whoa, wait! Hancock and I are…just friends. He’s not ‘my man’.” She snorts hysterically at the very thought of it.

For some reason this seems to put Wiseman out. He frowns. “You’re not an item?”

“No, oh my god. No.”

“Oh.”

He’s sad. Mona has no idea what she’s done to make him that way until her buzzed brain pieces together the puzzle like a clunky water purifier and starts making some clean sense out of it. She stands up, puts down her drink, and leans against the rail, looking out over the waste.

“Just because Hancock and I aren’t…together…doesn’t mean you can’t have hope, Wise. Don’t be ridiculous.” She exhales, looking over her shoulder at him. “I’m not laughing at it because Hancock is a _ghoul_ , I just don’t feel that way about him.”

“I wasn’t…”

“Look, I realized when I came here that things were kind of fucked up. Everyone’s all prejudiced against synths and ghouls and it’s like…where I come from, we argued about the same petty bullshit, but with different types of people. It’s like no matter where or when you go it’s the same. We’ve always got to find some reason to be hateful. And I’m just…I’m tired of it? I don’t get it? There’s good humans and bad humans, and good synths and bad synths, and good ghouls and bad ghouls, and if you can’t tell the difference and act accordingly then, fuck…I don’t know what to tell you.”

She grinds her teeth, and is about to look over her shoulder again and apologize for going on a rant, when suddenly she is aware that Wiseman is standing, and he’s right behind her, and when she turns around fully his calloused hands cup her face and his mouth lands on hers.

He kisses her purposefully, as if making an affirmation against her lips, and there’s no tongue but their lips meet and make a wet seal, and when he pulls away after a few intense moments the seal breaks with a soft _pop_.

Her face is still in his hands, a tato-red blush splattering her cheeks underneath them, and her mouth is gaping as if he took all the smartass words right out of her brain.

Just as suddenly, he lets her go, backing away with his hands up. “Jesus, I am so sorry. I don’t know what the hell came over—”

Mona takes back the step he took away from her and her body meets his, her breasts brushing his chest, their hips so tantalizingly close, and she stares into his big black eyes before hers close like fluttering butterfly wings and she closes the distance between their mouths again.

This time there is no hesitation. His hand snakes into her hair, the other grabbing her by the hip and tugging her in close, while hers fist into the front of his shirt. Their tongues meet and slide against one another, and she moans, and he swallows it up.

Soon enough his hands drift down her body, ghosting over the cinch of her waist, her hips, and around her firm ass, squeezing just so, and when their hips meet again Mona groans when she feels his erection, stiff and throbbing against her. She grinds into it, one hand moving down to press against him between their bodies, and he bucks involuntarily and pulls his mouth away as if it’s the hardest thing in the world for him to do.

“Not here,” he rasps, pulling her head back by her hair and mouthing along her exposed neck. “It’s too close…”

She tugs weakly at his waistband, too caught up in relishing the attention he’s paying to her sensitive neck to be focused on it. “Then where?”

“There’s a—there’s a shed about a half mile down—”

“Take me there,” she demands, her cunt throbbing and taking over all of her higher brain functions. If Wiseman catches the double entendre he doesn’t mention it, simply takes her by the hand and leads her down to the ground.

They run, honest to god _run_ , and Mona wants to sob in relief when the shed comes into view. It’s got four walls that are still standing and that makes up for how small it is. Inside, once Wiseman lights the lantern, she can see there is a low work table and tools that are hung up meticulously on their pegs on the wall, and the whole thing is too well-kept to not be at least of occasional use to someone at The Slog, maybe even Wiseman himself.

This train of thought is derailed when the door shuts behind them and he’s upon her again, hands cupping her ass. He backs them up to the table and shows off his strength by lifting her in one smooth motion and setting her down gently, her thighs halfway off the table, feet dangling.

He leans over her, supporting himself on his hands, and she cups his head as she leans up to kiss him, like there was never any interruption at all. Her heart is pounding so hard he must be able to feel it when he works her tight shirt up and visibly appraises her body. She can imagine what he’s seeing: the porcelain skin, the freckles smattered everywhere, her ginger hair spilling behind her on the table.

His bare hands (gloves off, when did that happen?) are all over her breasts and he can’t resist taking a pale nipple into his mouth and gently, so gently, sucking, and the barest hint of teeth causes her hips to jerk up and a cry to tear from her throat.

“What do you need, General?” he asks into her ear, just like that first day, except this is infinitely sexier and more exciting, his raspy voice snaking down her spine.

“Mona,” she grits out. “Please.”

“Mona,” he agrees. “What do you need?”

She tries and fails to articulate it, caught up in this, in the way her body feels. She hasn’t done this since she came out of cryo. She wasn’t sure she ever would again. But here she is, cunt soaked and heart racing, sensitive to each brush of his weathered hands against her skin.

He laughs, but he’s far from a stoic sex idol himself, panting and desperate in the way he grinds their clothed lower bodies together.

“Let’s see,” he murmurs, popping the button on her trousers and pulling them down. She lets him, lifting her legs so he can work off her boots, her trousers, her underwear, and suddenly she is naked in front of this ghoul she hardly knows.

But she can tell, could tell from the very beginning, that he’s a good guy. A real good guy, and he’s going to take care of her, she just knows. She yanks off his shirt, and at first he flinches like he’s sure she’ll find him disgusting, but her hands run over his textured skin, marveling at the hard muscle beneath, and just as her fingers reach the button of _his_ jeans they stutter, because he has brushed the digits of his right hand softly over her moist folds and her brain comes to a screeching halt.

Her lips are swollen and sensitive and she accepts a finger, and then another, inside of her with almost no resistance, and he groans as he pumps them in and out of her. “You’re so wet.”

“You’re fucking hot,” she says in answer, and it’s not eloquent but it gets the point across. The squeak she makes when his thumb drags slow circles across her clit is even less eloquent. “I want you,” she manages to gasp.

“Am I hearing you right, sweet thing? _You_ want _me_?”

“Please, just. Please!”

The languid circles his thumb is making pick up a little in speed, and it’s so embarrassing how close she is to coming, but then her nipple finds its way into his mouth again and she’s suddenly not just close to coming but right at the fucking door, and the orgasm takes her by surprise with its arrival and intensity.

She’s wailing his name and clenching his biceps, muscles spasming around his fingers, and Wiseman coos at her and encourages her through it, sucking on her neck. “You’re such a good girl, such a smart woman. That’s my girl.”

While she weakly rides out the last aftershocks of the orgasm, she comes to herself enough to see that Wiseman is pulling his dick from his jeans with his free hand, and he is just as thick and hard as she imagined he’d be when she felt him against her belly on the guard post.

His fingers pull out of her slowly, and braces himself on that hand, the other holding his erection a few inches away from her. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, suddenly unsure of himself. It’s as endearing as it is frustrating.

She knows she must look ridiculous, hair askew and cheeks blazing red (probably her whole upper half is red, story of her life), but she grits her teeth and says, in a way that gives no room for arguments, “if you don’t fuck me _right now_ I am going to scream.”

The hesitation evaporates from his face, and he smiles wolfishly. The next noise she makes is a gasp as the head of his penis touches her sensitive folds and they give way, allowing him to slip inch by agonizing inch inside of her heat. “I think,” he says, giving an experimental wiggle as he bottoms out, “that you are going to scream no matter what I do.”

She can’t even give him a smart retort when he starts to thrust, slowly at first, then picking up speed. She curls her arms and legs around him, holding on for dear life, and tries to muffle her moans in the crook of his neck, but when he starts fucking her in earnest it’s completely unfeasible.

Mona can’t remember being fucked this good, ever, in her entire life. Wiseman’s strong arms slide under her upper body and envelop her, holding her close to his chest as his penis and all of its bumps and scars hit every amazing spot inside of her. She cries out loudly, helplessly, and he gives her a sloppy kiss, too caught up in how it feels inside her to be precise about it.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he grits out between thrusts. “The first time I ever saw you all I could think about was how good it would feel to fuck you, to get to feel what it’s like inside of you, and I didn’t think I’d ever see you again but you came back, I can’t even believe it…” He trails off briefly when her nails rake down his back, surely leaving marks. “You came back and you’re so goddamn smart and good with your hands and just beautiful, just fucking gorgeous…”

His fierce thrusts and the wonderful babbling are getting Mona close again, and she tells him as much. “Baby, I’m going to come again. Don’t stop.” For emphasis she bites his shoulder, and he moans. He’s not going to last much longer; she can tell from the desperate snap of his hips and the intensity in his eyes when they meet hers.

Her second orgasm begins as a delicate ripple, but it hits with full impact and makes her see stars when his dick meets her in time with her spasms.

“Oh god, I can’t hold out.”

Dazed, she whispers, “Don’t hold out.”

“Is it okay if I…?”

Her voice is stronger this time. “Come in me, Wise. Come inside me, please!”

He requires no further prompting and comes entirely undone, burying himself completely inside of her and holding her hips possessively. “Mona…fuck!”

Mona sighs as she feels him pulse, knowing he’s spurting within her, and she kisses him, tongues meeting.

When they both come down, finally, Mona realizes that her body is covered in a sheen of sweat. Wiseman is holding himself off her body by his elbows, panting into the slick skin just above her breasts. He slides out of her and she sits up reluctantly. Some of his semen spills out of her, splashing onto the floor.

“Oops,” she says intelligently.

“I, uh. Ghouls are sterile, just in case you didn’t know.”

It might be the two orgasms, it might be the amazing sex she just had, and it might be that Wiseman is so delightfully absurd that she can’t help it, but Mona starts giggling. “I know, Wise. Do you really think I would have let you do that if I didn’t?” She knows because Hancock told her, and Hancock told her because he thinks it’s funny to make her redder than a boiled lobster.

The mood is light, if bittersweet, as they clean up and get dressed. Thanks to her there are fully enclosed shower stalls back at The Slog, and she intends to make use of them when they get back.

They walk back, Wiseman keeping a respectable distance between them. But when they’re just outside of the farm, and no one is there to watch, Mona tugs him in close and kisses him languidly, and his knuckles brush up and down her waist.

“I still can’t believe that happened,” he admits.

“It was pretty great,” she agrees. “But next time, someone really ought to cover the guard post. You’re not supposed to have gaps like that.”

At first his eyes narrow, and then he laughs, low and rough. “So there’s a next time, huh?”

“I keep up with all my projects, I’ll have you know. And special ones like these you don’t just visit once and never come back to.” She hopes he understands what she’s saying. And maybe he does, if his nod is any indication.

* * *

Wiseman is there to see her off the next morning, and so are half the other ghouls, which is awkward because it was hard enough to sleep in a separate bed when her body yearned to feel him next to her, and now she’s expected to say goodbye to him without giving any hint to the others about what they’d gotten up to last night.

So when he ‘volunteers’ to walk her past the perimeter, she can’t help the bubble that rises in her chest. They walk into the trees together, and when they are out of sight of The Slog he takes hold of her and dips her low and kisses her, and then, reluctantly, he lets her go.

She feels heavy as she walks alone, for a little while, but then a smile breaks out across her face as she thinks of all the amazing plant trivia she's going to lay on Preston  when she gets home.

* * *

 It is not, thankfully, godforsaken o’clock in the morning when Preston contacts her again a few weeks later. Mona hears her name coming through on the radio, and she answers almost at once, like always. “General Mona here. What’s the status, Preston?”

“It’s The Slog, General. I’ve got a report that their water purifier is on the fritz. They insist you come and take a look at it.”

“Really? So soon?” She tries to sound grumpy about it, but a grin is creeping over her face.

“If you’re busy I can send someone else. Maybe Sturges can have a look at—”

“I got it under control, Preston,” she buzzes back, hoping she doesn’t sound too eager. “I’m on my way after I wrap up here.”

“Roger.”

She clips the radio to her belt and a happy hum comes unbidden from her mouth.

Hancock clears his throat on the couch across from where she’s sitting. “D’you know what else is really interesting about ghoul anatomy?” he begins with a look of pure, detestable smugness.

Mona stands so fast she almost knocks over the coffee table and bolts for the door. “No. Oh no no no no no, shut your stupid mouth, Hancock.”

“What? It sounds like my last lesson came in handy.”

She throws open the door. “Nope. Just stop.”

“Have it your way, then, General. Don’t have too much fun.” He winks.

She shuts the door hard in mock anger, but the smile on her lips sticks with her all the way back to The Slog.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I want to assure everyone that I still put "synth-fucker" above "ghoul-fucker" on my resume, but sometimes things just happen.


End file.
